A Momentary Lapse in Seasons
by falconly
Summary: From picnics to cases to tourist attractions, Sherlock and John's relationship grows over the course of a year from season to season. Lots of fluffy cuteness and each chapter is standalone.
1. As the Kite Flies

"Sherlock, dear, you really should go out more. And take John with you, he'd love it," says Mrs Hudson.

"Would he. Hm."

"Are you actually making sandwiches? Yourself?" asks John.

"Obviously," Sherlock replies, slicing them into neat diagonals with a flick. "We're going on a picnic. Oh, don't look at me like that. Isn't that what normal people do, go on picnics?"

"I don't know if you've noticed, but you're not 'normal people'."

"No, I'm not. Thank God."

"A picnic, though. Really?"

"Yes."

John shrugs. "Right. Do we even have a basket?"

* * *

They stroll through the streets, weaving around traffic and entering Regent's Park. The din of the city falls away, leaving behind the rush of urban life and its worries. Birds trill from unseen nests, viciously audible over the babble of human voices. Above, the glow of morning light laps up dewdrops, tiny crystals fracturing into sparkles. A vast, blue sky extends over their heads as they bob along the footpath, promising a heavenly day.

"What is _in_ this thing?" John sighs, lugging a laden hamper.

"I like to be prepared."

"For what?"

"Anything."

He shoots him a bemused look but doesn't bother to ask. An expanse of lush, verdant grass stretches before them, fringed with leafy trees. Sherlock heads straight for the lone willow, parting a few strands as John staggers in. He drops his burden on the ground and unrolls a red gingham blanket, drags it up against the tree. From the basket, Sherlock removes four stones and places them at each corner, then lays out the food.

"Seriously, rocks?"

A breeze immediately ripples through, disturbing the sheets of other picnickers. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, a self-satisfied smile peeking through as John unwraps a sandwich. It's buttered and lightly toasted, stuffed with roast chicken, heirloom tomatoes and fresh lettuce. Ice tea is poured, napkins laid.

"I didn't know you could even make food."

"It's easy enough – a recipe fairly similar to an experiment. Duller, though."

"And with fewer body parts, hopefully," John mutters, taking another bite. They settle into a comfortable silence, the sound of rippling water, of buzzing insects, of human chatter, filling the air. Periodically, the wind whispers, sending the willow leaves trembling, the foliage singing.

John brings out desserts; fruit skewers, bite-sized apple pie, lemon scones that melt in his mouth.

"So. What's the occasion?" he asks, sliding a strawberry off the spike.

"None at all. Don't need one. Mrs Hudson said it'd be good for me."

"Is it? Good for you, I mean."

"It's less boring than I thought it'd be. I suppose that's favourable. Could you pass me the kite?"

"The kite?"

"Yes, the kite. It's in the basket."

John digs around, finds it: crimson cloth, mounted on a wooden frame. A face is drawn in thick, black marker.

"Is that supposed to look like me?"

"Perhaps."

"Are you sure this even works?" puffs John as the kite nosedives to the ground, his third attempt ending in failure. Sherlock unravels the tangled string, rewinds it. Hands the kite back.

"Go downwind! There, stand there. Hold it aloft, like that, yes, now release it!" He pulls it in and the kite catches a gust, continues to climb until it's a bloodstain across the sky. John makes his way over and stands beside him, a faint smile on his lips as he tilts his head upwards. Sherlock passes him the spool, gently guides his fingers.

"Keep it fairly taut, and – there we go." The kite soars overhead, a tail of colourful ribbons streaming behind it as it skims the air. It flutters for a few minutes, buoyed by the breeze. Moves towards a tree. John yanks the line just as the wind dies, barely changing its trajectory. It plunges, spiralling into the branches.

"Well. That was nice while it lasted," he says. "Come on, let's get it back."

They reach the tree, look upwards. John shoots Sherlock a look, gestures at its leaves.

"Why don't you?"

"Can't. I'm the short one, remember?"

"Right." He reaches up, hand inches away from the branch. Exhales in irritation. Then jumps and grabs hold, pulling himself up and over. Sitting on the limb, he carefully uncoils the ensnared kite from its cell. A sharp tug, and it's free, floating down towards the earth. Sherlock leaps after it, nearly crashing into John as he lands. They return it to the basket and tidy up, removing all traces of their presence. Except one.

"There's no way I'm bringing those bloody rocks back."

They take to the paths, turning as the road curves, no destination in mind. John studies the people, Sherlock, the garden. To their left, rows of benches; to their right, a bed of amethyst blooms dotted with magenta, amber, ivory. He examines an overflowing urn, scarlet flowers spilling over its lip. Considers nicking a few and planting them at Baker Street.

Eventually, their wanders lead them to a walkway hemmed by cherry trees, dusty pink blossoms brushing Sherlock's curls. One falls loose, landing in his hair. John reaches over and plucks it from his head, tucking it behind Sherlock's ear as he stifles a chuckle. If he notices, he doesn't mind.

"Where'd you learn to make scones?"

"Bought them."

"Ah, shame. Thought you found a new hobby."

"Hm?"

"I'd rather wake to the smell of baked goods than gunshots. Especially at six in the morning," says John with a wry grin.

"Noted. Nevertheless, surely you can admit that it's an exceedingly effective alarm clock."

"Effective, yes. Pleasant? God no."

The sun is sinking when they meander up Primrose Hill. Upon reaching its summit, John lays out the blanket and they sit, gazing at the city. Pinpricks of light exude from the now-lit street lamps, illuminating the park below. The sky is ablaze in a fury of ruby and gold, reflecting off airy wisps. London rises up against the flame, skyline sharp and defined. Here, the Shard stabs the atmosphere; there, the BT Tower protrudes, London Eye rotating leisurely beside it.

"Thanks, Sherlock."

"What for?"

"Today."


	2. Lost in Transition

Blackfriars Station: where the Circle and District Lines run together, where trains shriek to a stop before pulling away, where the passengers move when the carriages do not. Also where John finds himself on a Tuesday morning, chasing after Sherlock as he runs down to the eastbound platform, taking the steps two at a time. He slips through the doors of the train just as the warning tone begins, John barely making it in before they slam shut. He slumps down onto a seat, catches his breath. Accidentally presses his leg against Sherlock's.

"What the hell are we doing?"

"Disproving an alibi. We have the records from our suspect's Oyster card saying that she tapped in at 11.23 and out at 11.44, but our victim was lacerated near Liverpool Street at 11.41, watch broken. The train leaves Blackfriars at 11.26 if there are no delays, which there wasn't. Just enough time for our suspect to jump the barriers, murder the woman, and come back to tap out."

"Couldn't we just look at the CCTV?"

"Mysteriously vanished. Incompetent."

"Awfully convenient."

There's a rumble underfoot, the whine of the engine increasing in volume as the carriage begins to move.

_The next station is_

_Mansion House_

_Please mind the gap between the train and the platform._

He stares out the window, a rolling parallax of black wires on black walls. Sherlock's texting, his elbows encroaching upon John's chest as his fingers flit over the keys. Stations sweep by; at each, the train pauses, then speeds up with a quiet howl, wheels clattering against the track. Passengers stream in and out, a bearded man at Cannon Street, a short-haired woman at Monument, Tower Hill: tourists. The rocking of the carriage; rhythmic, lulling as it pushes the two together, apart.

_This is_

_Aldgate_

Mint and turquoise tiled pillars, boasting red and blue roundels. Doors open – eight minutes – doors shut.

_This is a Circle Line train via _

_Liverpool Street and_

_Kings Cross/St. Pancras._

_The next station is_

_Liverpool Street_

_Change for_

_the Central Line and _

_National Rail services._

The platform pulls into view, clusters of travellers with their heads down, buried in a phone, in the papers, in their own thoughts. A westbound train passes by in a blur of red and white, rattling away as soon as it arrives. Ten minutes.

"If she took this train, that leaves...five minutes between her exiting the train and the murder. Enough?" asks John.

Sherlock has already dashed out.

When John finally catches up, he finds Sherlock at the entrance of the station, beaming.

"What'd you reckon?"

"Undoubtedly her. Timing works out perfectly." He reaches for his phone, sends a text to Lestrade.

_Arrest the suspect. SH_

"Dull. This wasn't even a six. Well, they can't all be brilliant."

"Why'd you come, then?"

Sherlock doesn't reply, only smiles faintly. Then he turns and heads for a coffee shop.

"Black, two sugars, thank you. And tea for my friend."

He manoeuvres into a table by the corner, his back to the wall and the entire shop within his view. John picks up their drinks and sits across from him, pen scratching across a notepad as he unravels the details from their latest case. He sips his tea, tuning out the other customers as he outlines a narrative. Sherlock's phone chimes, eliciting a smirk and a glance upwards.

"What do you say to a riverboat ride?"

They arrive at Embankment Pier, step on an eastbound route to North Greenwich. The boat passes under Waterloo Bridge, a hulking concrete beast looming above them as the dome of St. Paul's rises alongside the towers of the City, leafy trees on both banks. Back to Blackfriars, gliding between its two and a half bridges, ruby columns upholding naught but air. The twisting coils of Millenium Bridge, pointing to the Tate Modern. Sherlock peers out onto the river when they reach the Tower of London, slipping from the sleek and modern to the historical, the antiquated. At Tower Pier, Sherlock lightly touches John's arm as he moves to the exit, typing something into his phone. Ahead: Tower Bridge in all its stone glory, azure and royal blue.

"There's been a murder at the Tower Hotel. Lestrade says our dead man took a river bus back to the hotel, then locked himself in the bathroom. Body wasn't discovered until the housekeeper entered," says Sherlock.

"How'd he die?"

"Drowned in the tub. No signs of foul play, and yet..."

"Maybe he fell asleep?"

"Perhaps. Best not develop baseless theories."

They enter the foyer of the hotel, all angles and geometry. Lestrade greets them, then takes them up to the room. There's a king-sized bed, unmade. By the window, a small seating area: two armchairs and a circular table. An open suitcase lies at the foot of the bed, clothes neatly folded within. On the nightstand: keycard, phone, a book, tickets.

"So. We've got a dead man, a barred room, and no motive nor suspects. Suicide?" asks Lestrade.

"Doubtful. There are simpler methods." Sherlock enters the bathroom, examining the tableaux.

_Early thirties, tanned._

_No ring, neatly trimmed nails; clean. _

_Relatively fit._

_No visible injuries._

_Recent insomnia._

_Nearby towel: slightly damp._

_Other towels: dry._

_Faint imprint of a hand wrapped around faucet; not his, slightly larger._

"Someone covered his face with a towel and pushed him into the water. He was already partially sedated when he entered the tub – he'd taken sleeping pills to deal with jetlag – so it wouldn't have been much of a struggle. If it was murder..."

He shifts toward the door and inspects the handle, letting out a short laugh.

"John, will you stand inside? Now, turn the lock for me, please, and leave the door open." He exits the room and shuts the door behind him, confining John inside.

"Locked," he says, tapping the handle. "The murderer probably hoped – in vain, might I add – that it would deter people from entering. Clearly, not someone very experienced. You can open the door now, John." He moves to the centre of the room, scrutinising every corner.

"There's been a woman here," he says, pointing at the bed. "Two impressions in the pillows, yet he's unmarried and there's one suitcase. However, the murderer was a man. Surely you can deduce the rest."

"Um. Jilted husband?" asks John.

"Yes!" Sherlock exclaims, taking John's hands in his. "Finally, he understands." His eyes are gleaming as he collects the mobile from the nightstand, re-entering the bathroom. Comes back out, triumphant.

"Here's her number. He's yours," says Sherlock, handing it to Lestrade.

"There's one thing I'm still not clear about. Why would he ride the Clipper?" says Lestrade.

"Obvious. He's a tourist. Chinese or Italian?"

"Pardon?"

"For dinner."

A drink and a plate of fried rice later, Sherlock instantly reverts back to lethargy, stretching his legs underneath the table as he yawns. He catches John's calf with his foot, who gives him a long-suffering smile and returns to his writing. A bill is received, two fortune cookies piled atop it.

"You're about to ask if I can predict the fortunes," says Sherlock.

"Actually, yeah. I was. Can you?"

He picks one up, staring at it for a few seconds before setting it back down.

"Mmm. This one here, something inane about being proactive. The other one, love." John cracks open both, then hands one to Sherlock at random.

His says, _Life is about making some things happen, not waiting for something to happen. _

Before John can fully consider the implications of his own – _Love, because it is the only true adventure_ – he looks back at his notes.

Then, a revelation.

"Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"Did you...use a fingerprint to unlock the mobile?"

"So what if I did?"


	3. The Eye is the Window to My Heart

John glares at the skull. The skull glares back, unamused.

"How can a bloody _skull_ keep someone company?"

Sighing, he returns to his book, mind elsewhere. A roaring fire crackles merrily beside him as his thoughts drift back to Sherlock, out sketching somewhere.

He's been doing that a lot, lately, in this fleeting lull between cases. A pang of loneliness shivers up his spine and curls around his chest, his novel momentarily forgotten. The absence of Sherlock's tall, brooding figure leaves an uneasy emptiness in his heart, a void where life once was. He gets up from his chair, puts on the kettle as he walks around the kitchen, stacking dishes and straightening silverware. Sherlock's not the only one who needs distractions. Routine cleaning; completely fruitless. He'll just mess it up when he returns, why bother? Still, there has to be some kind of neatness for him to destroy. And so, he bothers. Bothers to sort the books scattered about: under the sofa, on the table, in the laundry hamper. There's even one in his own dresser. He's just finished placing the last book back on the shelf when the door flies open, Sherlock sweeping in with a swirl of dramatic flair and coat. His hands are stained with ink, the side of his palm almost entirely black.

"Mind if I look?" he asks, waving at the notebook.

"John, you've asked that twenty-six – twenty-seven, now – times in the last month and not once have I agreed. Must I keep repeating myself? No, you may not look."

John tries to stifle his urge to roll his eyes, thinks better of it. Sherlock doesn't notice, he's too busy casting discarded sheets into the fire. He's more agitated than yesterday, rejects more today.

"Problem?"

"It doesn't look right. It hasn't looked right for the past week. This one location, just this one, does not, will not, translate to my pen. Why? Surely my skill hasn't fallen so far that I can't – it's all observation, anyway, placing reality into abstract lines. And no, you still may not look. But. You could come with me, perhaps. Tell me what I'm doing wrong. Not that you'd know, of course, but it would be...nice." Sherlock's icy eyes find his for a split second, and John thinks he sees a flash of hope within them. It's gone in an instant, replaced by the cold, calculating look he knows so well.

"Yeah? Course I'll go. I would like some tea first, though."

* * *

Sherlock paces across the Golden Jubilee Bridges, walking up, down, over again, charcoal moving incessantly over the page. After the fourth crossing, John gives up and picks a spot in the middle, watches the riverboats pass by underneath. He pulls out his own pad of paper, jotting down a few lines, erases them. Grumbles in frustration and puts it away again. The London Eye turns lazily, reflecting the evening glow as it rotates, burdened with tourists.

"We should try that," says Sherlock, appearing behind him. John flinches at his intrusion, then looks over.

"The Eye? I mean, it's a tourist trap, but it's a fairly decent one."

"I've never been. It makes an excellent subject, though."

As they make their way over to Southbank, John quickens his steps and reaches for Sherlock's arm in an attempt to slow him down. He doesn't. John keeps his grip, not wanting to lose him among the throngs of pedestrians. It takes a few more metres before he realises that he's walking arm in arm with his sociopathic flatmate; also realises that he doesn't want to let go. Sherlock doesn't seem to mind, even pulls him closer.

"I suppose the one tolerable aspect about the living is that they're warm," he says, so softly that John almost doesn't catch him.

"What glowing praise," he replies, laughing quietly. "Go on, then, what's something intolerable about that couple?" "He's an insatiable Instagram addict – you can tell by the way his eyes search for the next photo, his hands constantly fidgeting with his phone. So inattentive, he's already missed thirty-eight chances. She's a banker, obviously. Ergo: bastard."

"You amaze me, Sherlock. Always," John whispers, looks up and smiles at him. He turns his head almost imperceptibly, offers John a quirk of his lips. The praise never gets old.

They stand underneath the Ferris wheel, both gazing at the city beyond, its lights twinkling and its inhabitants passing through. The rush of life is subdued now, people anticipating a cup of tea and warm beds. Here, at this singular point, time slows, dilating. They're silent, for they don't need words to speak. They're strangers to everyone else but themselves; the world keeps revolving around them as they stand, but they don't care. This is the only moment that matters.

And now, this one.

Now, this.

They climb the steps leading up to the platform of the Eye. John's hand slides down Sherlock's arm, entwines their fingers. They enter a pod, and Sherlock has to bow down to get through the door. It shuts behind them with a thud, sealing them in.

"There's no one else here, how?" asks John, though he can guess the answer.

"Infuriating as he is, having Mycroft as a brother does have its advantages," Sherlock says as John leans against him, placing his head on Sherlock's shoulder. The sodium lights of the city glitter, the only constellations that can be seen, split up by the Thames slicing through. In the distance, the Shard glows like a beacon among a forest of skyscrapers. All is still, save for their breath.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" John murmurs. "Yes, it is," says Sherlock, gazing at him. John's brow crinkles before softening again.

"I knew you'd figure it out eventually." He ducks his head towards John and places his hand on the small of his back, lightly twisting his cable-knit jumper as he closes the distance. Presses his lips against John's, tastes the Earl Grey he favours so much. John tangles his fingers in Sherlock's hair as his eyes fall shut, sighing softly. Sherlock's magnificently warm despite the autumn chill. He pulls John onto the central bench, snaking an arm around his waist. John leans his head against his chest, the steady beat of Sherlock's heart filling his ears; closes his eyes and listens for a while. Breathes in the scent of his cologne, lemon and bergamot, a hint of chemicals peeking through underneath. There, they stay, rocked by the movements of the Eye as it inches up, pausing at its peak. Then descends, pedestrians coming back into focus.

Night has fallen by the time they exit the capsule. London is aglow, street lamps lit and light pouring out of windows. Pubs are open, spilling their warmth onto the sidewalks and tempting all passerby with an aroma of comfort. Nearby trees uphold laden boughs, overhanging the river with amber leaves, blue fairy lights slithering around their trunks. They walk together down the boulevard, John clutching Sherlock's hand, long fingers laced with his own. A gust of wind blusters through, disturbing the detritus of everyday rubbish. He involuntarily tugs Sherlock closer in an attempt to ward off the cold, trying to syphon his body heat. In one deft motion, Sherlock removes his scarf and loops it around him, secures it.

"Thanks," he says, burrowing deeper into the soft cashmere.

"You needed it."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"I..."

"Me too."


	4. As Pure as the Hidden Soul

The city awakens at five.

A blood-soaked sky blankets its inhabitants scurrying home, the pulse of rush hour thrumming through the streets. The roads are clogged and arteries are blocked and trains thunder underneath, life crammed into tunnels. Rivers of red and gold flow between spires of glass, weaving around monolithic slabs as it flees toward the highways. Among it all: drifting snowflakes, settling; on the brink of sending London into a screeching halt. Masks the grime and dirt underneath pure white, if only temporarily.

Sherlock stands at his window; sweeps his violin up to his chin. The bow glides across silver threads, delicate and quietly abrasive, a wistful melody piercingly gentle. Behind him, John sits on the sofa, clutching a mug of hot chocolate. Listening intently, eyes closed, steam licking his brow. The hearth smoulders away, basking the room in a warm glow as it flickers and leaps. Sharp, velvet highs; rich and sultry lows permeate the flat, sweeping from its corners to its heart. The notes recede with a crescendo and a flourish, bow lifting from the strings and returning to his side. He glances at John, meeting his gaze with a smile, then drops down beside him and drapes an arm across his shoulders. Sherlock pulls a woollen blanket over them, John's hand on his thigh as he listens to the rise and fall of his breath.

When he wakes, he's strewn across John's lap, evening glimmer fading into dusk.

"Morning," says John, running his hands through Sherlock's silky hair. With a grumble, he pushes himself upright, lightly kissing his cheek.

"Dinner? I'm starving."

A hush has fallen with the snow, smothering the clamour of traffic, the racket of errands, the everyday bustle. It muffles their footsteps as they walk in step, arms linked, Sherlock matching his pace to John's. Snowflakes brush their coats, dusting them in a pale sparkle; little touches of frost.

"Bit cold," says John, his breath clouding in the air.

"Astute observation. Perfectly sound, as well."

"Christ, should've known you'd say that. Any point in asking where we're going?"

"Nope."

One cab ride later, John stares up at the towering curve of glass and steel; looks back at Sherlock.

"Sky Garden, huh?"

"Apparently it's quite a romantic location, not that I'd know."

"I think you just like to look down on people."

They enter the building, take the lift to the thirty-seventh floor and are shown to a table by a window. Sherlock produces a candle from his pocket and places it on the side, lights it. Outside, snowflakes continue to swirl from the heavens, coating the city in a quilt of lavish white.

"It's lovely."

"Does its beauty stem from the inherent rarity of snow in London or is it merely sentiment based off of a projected ideal?"

"You're lovely."

"The sentiment, then."

Wine is poured, a deep, luscious red; starters served. The glow of the lights outside is muted by the falling snow, the lone candle dances, burning bright. Reflects off the glass, igniting the Thames. John watches the pedestrians as they hurry by, collars up and scarves fluttering, hands shoved into pockets. The last remnants of daylight have disappeared beneath the horizon, and yet the city defies the dark. Platters are placed in front of them: fillets of cod, perfectly steamed, turnips and smoked mackerel. Sherlock's incessantly drumming the table, expression impassive.

"You alright?" asks John.

"Thinking," he says, reaching for his fork.

"Right, then. Any progress on the gutted surgeon?"

"Transparent. Former patient with a vendetta; I do hope you've got a better title than that."

"I could make it worse."

"Dear God." He picks up his wine glass and takes a sip, balancing the stem between his thumb and forefinger. Then holds it in the air for a minute before putting it back down, watching the liquid settle.

"Someone's about to get shot, aren't they," says John, peering at Sherlock over the rim of his glass.

"Now _that _would be exciting," Sherlock grumbles. He stabs at the fish, missing completely.

"I'll take that as a no, then. Dessert?"

"Please."

He orders a chocolate fondant, setting his empty plates aside. It's dark and creamy, mellow with a suggestion of hazelnut, slightly earthy, mostly sweet. Sherlock steals the last bite.

The vibrant hum of the city has given way to the weather, tranquillity ruling underneath the billowing snow. Sherlock guides John through the streets, sending up small flurries with every step. They soon reach the riverbank, turn onto London Bridge. The water below is inky black, Tower Bridge a rippling illusion upon it.

"How does one get married?" Sherlock asks, leaning over the railing and staring intently at the Thames.

"Sorry, who's getting married?"

"Us."

"I...I don't understand."

"We're getting married."

"Did I miss something?"

"From your demeanour at dinner, I've already deduced the most probable outcome from a proposal, you saying yes. Accordingly, there's no need to concern ourselves with trivial formalities."

"And if I don't?"

"John—"

"Ask me, Sherlock."

He pauses.

Sinks down onto one knee, raises his head.

Holds a carnation aloft.

A breath.

"John Watson, will you marry me?"

The silence hangs for a split second; the city ceases to stir, the ever-present cacophony of life, mute.

"I'd love to," he sighs, taking the scarlet blossom and helping him up. Pulls him closer, whispers.

"Sherlock Holmes, will you marry me?"

"Yes. Yes, I'd be delighted. Though I—"

"Shut up." He cups his cheek and trails a finger down his back, gently pushing him against the railing; kisses him. Sherlock's arm encircles his waist, the sparkling touch of snowflakes on his brow. He buries his head into Sherlock's chest, laughing softly.

"You expected this, didn't you. That's why you have a flower," John says, looking up at him.

"I have to account for—"

"Actually, don't answer. I can pretend to be right, for once." He lifts his head; kisses him again.

"You were right, though. You were right about me," says Sherlock, almost to himself.

"Course I was," John murmurs, "Sherlock, the only person you can't observe is yourself. You really can't. But I...I can. And I can see for myself how much you care, despite your own protests. I love how you can deduce someone's life from the way they wear their shirt. I love how my life is never boring around you, I love every moment. You're marvellous, and I love you. I really do."

"I know. Thank you, John. For everything. I love you, too."

* * *

A/N: The end! Thank you so much for reading, it really means a lot. I'd love to hear what you think, both good and bad ️


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